Edgar Wallace

“ He went down the corridor, retrieved his rubber truncheon, and came back to her. She was half standing, half leaning against the door-post, rubbing her arm. She was staring past him so intently that he looked round, though there was nothing to be seen.
"You hurt me," she said simply.
"Did I? I'm sorry."
The mark on the white flesh had gone blue, and Mr. Reeder was naturally a sympathetic man. Yet, if the truth be told, there was nothing of sorrow in his mind at that moment. Regret, yes. But the regret had nothing to do with her hurt.
"I think you'd better go to your bed, young lady. ”

“ Reeder softly, "because you omitted to take off your collar and tie. I know of nothing more disturbing."
Mr. Daver made a characteristic grimace.
"I dressed myself rather hurriedly——" he began.
"Better to undress yourself hurriedly," chided Mr. Reeder, almost playfully. "People who go to bed in stiff white collars occasionally choke themselves to death. And there is sorrow in the home of the cheated hangman. Your burglar probably saved your life." ”

“ He beckoned her to him, and as she came, wondering, he slipped past her and took her place at the banisters. She saw him lean over and the light from a hand-lamp sweep the space below.
"There's nobody there," he said airily. ”